The Unincorporated Man

Home > Other > The Unincorporated Man > Page 19
The Unincorporated Man Page 19

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin


  Justin got down to business immediately. It took Sandra a minute to get over the shock of Justin’s impending death. As usual her boss delivered the news concisely and with a healthy dose of what she often referred to as “the intrigue factor.”

  “Good evening, Sandra,” he’d said to her. “Let me cut to the chase. I’ll be dead in less than a year, and I plan on making it as mild a death as is humanly possible.” She listened to his proposal without batting an eye, and couldn’t help but be intrigued. Of course she was often intrigued by Justin Cord and the myriad schemes he’d thrown across her table. But this one was not like anything she’d ever tackled before. She wasn’t being asked to save his physical being—just ensure its preservation.

  “Now let me get this straight,” she said, not believing her own ears. “You want a self-contained suspension unit that will keep you frozen for years, if not centuries. This unit will be hidden away from all human contact, and therefore will need to be self-maintaining and self-repairable.”

  Justin nodded in the affirmative.

  “And you want this in less than a year.”

  Another nod.

  “Well, Mr. Cord, as much as I’d like to take your money, my gut on this is that it can’t be done. Liquid nitrogen has a dispersion rate . . .”

  “I don’t really give a damn about the dispersion rate of nitrogen, liquid or otherwise, Doctor,” he answered. “You can use laughing gas for all I care.”

  “Well, laughing gas is . . . ,” the doctor began to explain, until she realized that though her boss was grinning, the smile had not reached his eyes.

  “Never mind,” she continued. “What you want can’t be done in a year. We would have to research, test, and build; we may even need a new science to do it.”

  “Dr. O’Toole,” responded Justin, with the perfect measure of impatience in his voice to make her realize her job may be on the line, “I am worth seventeen billion dollars. That is your operating budget. Hire who you want, work where you want, and buy, lease, beg, borrow, or steal what you want. Just get it done. And if you succeed, the research laboratory and an annual budget of a hundred million dollars is yours . . . personally. However, if you feel you can’t . . .”

  He made sure to let the last word dangle perilously.

  The doctor wrote down a few brief notes in her tablet computer and looked up.

  “Alright, Mr. Cord. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll try. I should have a better view of things by the end of the week. At which point I’ll call you. I don’t have to tell you that time is of the essence, so I will ask that you keep your nose out of it until I have something to report. I work better that way.”

  “Dr. O’Toole, you have yourself a deal,” he said, reaching across to shake her hand.

  He smiled inwardly. Dying might be a battle he was destined to lose, but not without a fight.

  Sebastian was having an unusually hard day. It had nothing to do with being overwhelmed—that seldom happened—and everything to do with death, or rather, his boss’s contemptible attempt to avoid it. Maybe, he reasoned, it was disconcerting to see a fearless man experience fear. Of course, Mr. Cord wasn’t acting afraid. Quite the opposite. He was determined. In fact, Sebastian had never seen the fire of determination burning so brightly in Mr. Cord as it was burning now. Justin, whose body was beginning to show the telltale signs of dying, was, to put it awkwardly, so very alive. Sebastian realized that everything his boss had done until now was a game. And rattling the world and changing the way it thought about work was just part of that game. But this endeavor he’d embarked upon was no game, thought Sebastian—it was plain foolish. If only his boss would realize the folly of all that wasted money and prepare for his end in the dignified and proper manner more befitting a man of his position. That Sebastian could prepare for. Death was supposed to be a well-known process, with forms and procedures to follow, and rituals developed over thousands and thousands of years. Sebastian was good with anything that could be learned and replicated. It comforted him, and he knew it was what made him valuable. But this “freezing” thing was just plain wrong. Still, even with his mind made up, Sebastian was a creature of habit, and had spent too many years obeying Justin Cord to stop now—even if it went against his moral and ethical grain. So it was with feelings of both pride and ambivalence that he now approached his boss.

  “She did it, sir.”

  “Did what?” Justin asked in between the cough and gasps.

  “Created your . . . um . . . unit, I guess.”

  Justin moved his hands to indicate that Sebastian should continue.

  “Apparently, the key was in the insulation. As long as the,” he made a slight but noticeable pause, “unit is made durable enough to protect the insulating apparatus it will be continuous and sustainable, but not very eco nom ical. This is a rich man’s toy, Mr. Cord, and a very, very rich man’s toy at that.”

  “Not a toy, my friend,” Justin said, between coughs. “A lifeboat . . . cast upon the sea of time.”

  Lifeboat, how ironic, thought Sebastian.

  “Sir, I am also happy to report that the security is holding up. No one appears to have the slightest inkling that you are sick.”

  “The word is ‘dying,’ Sebastian, and I’m not at all surprised. I hired the perfect man to . . . ,” he took a few more deep breaths, “. . . hide this little news item.”

  “I’m still not sure why that ugly little reporter took a job that would force him to hide a major news story.”

  Justin smiled knowingly and steadied himself. “My dear Sebastian. Everyone who’s good at something secretly wishes . . . to see if they’d be good at the opposite. The fireman, in the back of his mind, wonders . . . how to . . . set fires. The brilliant police officer in his spare time plans the . . . perfect crime. In most cases these remain daydreams of the competent. Now . . . our reporter has stumbled onto a great story before anyone else. He was unappreciated and, I suspect . . . underestimated, probably because he wasn’t good-looking. But he was . . .” Justin let out a loud, painful-sounding cough. “. . . very good at being a . . . reporter. I asked him . . . if he would like the challenge of keeping a secret rather . . . rather than exposing one.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  “Yes, Sebastian. The challenge was irresistible. Now . . . the secret isn’t mine, it’s his. He will . . . continue to keep it. Call it professional pride.”

  I call it tripling his salary, thought Sebastian.

  It’s a good day to die, thought Justin Cord. And a beautiful place to do it. To anybody else the “beautiful” site he was looking at would appear to be as decrepit and lifeless a rock pit as one could imagine. To Justin it would be his, or, more specifically, his body’s new home.

  As he hovered in the hydraulic chair under the belly of a private helicopter, he was able to peer down on about as deserted a mine as one could hope to find in the continental United States. He took solace in the fact that he’d taken the precaution of having all locatable records of the mine expunged. Humorously, Justin also became the sole owner of this piece of worthless property that had not been worked since the late 1800s—a mine that barely existed legally. Justin, covered in a thick blanket, was lowered from the helicopter to the mine entrance. He was shivering, not from the weather, nor from the slight buffeting winds, but rather from the disease that now had almost full control of his body. As he looked around he saw that all evidence of the excavation had been removed, and that no one would be able to know about this place by either air or casual hike. This was a hidden tomb the pharaohs would have been proud of.

  As his feet touched the ground he reviewed his list, barely noticing that Sebastian, as always, was dutifully waiting for him. Justin’s mind was racing over the final pieces of the amazingly complex puzzle he’d built over the course of the last nine months. The estate was to be left in a perpetual trust fund, administered by Sebastian and his chosen aides. The corporation was big enough to last decades if it was run
conservatively. A special committee would monitor advancements in medicine, nanotechnology, and other related fields. When it became feasible to revive and cure Justin, they would first excavate, then revive him. Justin looked over the list of treasures that he was having buried as part of his tomb. Taking no chances, he wanted to make sure that if he was going to wake up, he was going to wake up wealthy—corporation or no corporation. Diamonds, gold, silver, platinum, stock certificates, and priceless works of art would be stored in his chamber, his suspension unit, and at various places around the world.

  “They’re ready for you, sir.”

  Sebastian and a trusted bodyguard carried Justin into the mine. The guard, though a loyal employee for years, had been blindfolded the entire length of the journey, and had been promised an annuity for life if the activities of the day remained a secret. He’d readily agreed.

  It wasn’t much effort to lift Justin’s body; it had wasted away to almost nothing. From a robust 185 pounds, the rock that Sebastian had for so long looked up to was weighing in at barely 120. Justin was paying grievously for the drugs that had enabled him to appear “normal” at the New Year’s Eve party he’d just discreetly made his exit from. He’d sat in a darkened corner of a room whose lighting and sound system he controlled, forced a few smiles, waved occasionally, and pretended to talk into a cell phone. Very large men guarded the table and made sure that no one got near enough to pierce the facade their boss was struggling to maintain. Justin had naturally cut back on his commitments and appearances in the past few months, but not so drastically as to create too much speculation. It was vital that he appear OK at his last event, and at least now, mercifully, it was over. In the lexicon of the old thinking it had been an unwise use of time. That appearance had cost him a week of his life. But Justin was a man who, when committed to a course of action, did not take half measures. If this “lifeboat on the sea of time,” as he now always thought of it, worked, then he wouldn’t need that extra week. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t lose much except a week—of life—in a hospital room—with doctors—and machines—all conspiring to rob him of hope.

  And hope is what it all came down to. He tried unsuccessfully to explain that concept to Sebastian. His endeavor had nothing to do with the probabilities of success or failure, or the apparent waste of money, time, and resources toward that end. In fact, Justin knew even better than his doubting assistant just how long the odds were of the whole “frozen suspension thing.” True, he had probably spent more than anyone else in the pursuit of his vision—a whopping $2 billion. However, for a man within countable breaths of death, he was pleased.

  Sebastian and the bodyguard stripped him of his clothes and placed him on the platform that would act as his “bed.” He first saw the bright lights of the chamber ceiling shining down on him, and then the face and sad eyes of Dr. Sandra O’Toole.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Cord?” she asked.

  Justin nodded, managing a tepid smile.

  “Godspeed on your journey . . . Justin.” It was the first time she’d used his given name.

  Then, clasping his hands into hers, and looking deep into his eyes, she said, “May this lifeboat keep you safe on the oceans of time until you find safe harbor.”

  She understands, thought Justin, finding a small satisfaction that at least one person didn’t think he’d dropped off the deep end. At least one person saw the potential of what he was trying to accomplish.

  He felt the injection and knew that what had just invaded his body would stop his heart and deliver him into the hands of Morpheus. He tried to tell Sandra that this was what he wanted—a chance—but he was already so very tired, and he drifted away without saying a word.

  Neela stared in awe. The amount of determination, planning, and faith his achievement spoke to was remarkable. She tried to think if there was anyone she knew who had the same internal fortitude, and could only come up with two names: Mosh McKenzie, and, strangely enough, Hektor Sambianco.

  Why did Hektor come to mind? She shook the thought off and concentrated on her job. And for the first time she caught a glimpse of a problem she’d not been trained for. What effect would Justin’s social integration have on society? Maybe the problem would not simply be, “Was Justin ready for the incorporated world?” but rather, “Was the incorporated world ready for Justin?” She pondered this while finishing off dessert. In the reflection of the now empty silver pizza pan she caught the bright flash of a small circular object. When she turned around it was gone.

  “So you saw it too?” he asked.

  “What exactly did you see, Justin?”

  “It looked kind of like a floating eight ball.”

  “Eight ball?”

  “Don’t tell me they don’t have pool in the twenty-fourth century?”

  “Oh, billiards, yeah, some people still play, I’m just not one of them. So can you describe it further?”

  “Well,” he answered, “it was a perfect sphere, about two and a half inches . . .”

  “Inches? Ahh, right . . . ,” she said, as another historical fact dusted itself off and reminded her of who she was talking to. “We use the metric system now.”

  Justin sighed. “OK, about six, six and a half centimeters.”

  “The Alaskans tried to make the world go back to the American system,” she said, with as much sympathy as she could muster, “but not even they could turn back that clock.”

  “Alaskans?”

  Neela smiled. “That will take some time to cover. Would you please continue with your description?”

  “It was shiny, black, and had what seemed to be a reflective glass dot in the center.”

  Neela stopped eating. She looked around and saw that the flying object had taken a position just outside the restaurant at the entrance. It appeared to be waiting patiently.

  Shit. Neela squirmed. Mediabot.

  Mediabots were used by the world’s news agencies to cover breaking news. But more often than not they were used as a sort of flying paparazzi to harangue the rich and famous. Like insects, they were annoying, abundant, and sometimes even dangerous.

  “We should probably head back,” she said, getting up from her chair.

  “Something wrong?” Justin asked, concerned for the change of mood in his dinner partner.

  Neela considered making up an excuse, and dismissed it. Her policy was one of absolute honesty. Unless the welfare of her patient called for outright lies, in which case she would swear on her future majority that the sun revolved around the Earth and Tim Damsah was really a socialist. This was not one of those cases.

  “It looks like it’s a mediabot. Essentially, a roving camera. That model is used almost exclusively by news agencies, though you’ll find them used as high-tech toys by those who can afford them.”

  “So you’re saying it could be lost or waiting for its owner?”

  “Yes. But to be on the safe side . . . ,” Neela said, still looking over her shoulder.

  “We should vamoose,” he suggested.

  “Va-what?”

  “Go,” explained Justin.

  “Right. Let’s vamoose.”

  The waiter, seeing them both standing, appeared with a small rectangular device in his hand. Neela indicated for Justin to hold up the card he’d received earlier in the pawnshop and say the word “agreed,” which he promptly did, and just like that the meal, tip included, had been paid for.

  As they departed the restaurant they kept an eye on the bot. It didn’t appear to be following them, which was a good sign. Then again, explained Neela, they were programmed not to draw too much attention.

  “You don’t think I should be giving interviews just yet?” asked Justin.

  Neela made a mental note to have her avatar look for all news footage of Justin in a press situation.

  “I’m not sure that now is the time to introduce you to the world. Let’s avoid that firestorm for as long as we can.”

  “Isn’t it a bit too late?” asked Justin, movin
g his head in the direction of the recently seen mediabot.

  “If they knew who you were there would be dozens of bots and lots of reporters here right now,” answered Neela. “But just to be on the safe side, let’s get back to the hospital.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Right, let’s grab another char . . .” She stopped herself. “No,” she said, thinking out loud. “If they’re on to us, privately charted t.o.p.s would probably be the first counters they’d scope out. Best to travel cattle class.” Neela took out her DijAssist to check schedules.

  “OK,” Neela said, not bothering to look up, “there’s a quick connection to Boulder via New York. But we have to leave right now.”

  They took a cab to the orport, and with little difficulty made it to their flight. As they settled into their seats Neela suggested that Justin try out a pair of gigglegogs—aptly named because anyone who used them—mostly kids—ended up doing a lot of giggling. The neat thing about the gogs was that they enabled the user to view the entire flight live with the ability to pause, fast forward, or reverse, as if the shell of the pod didn’t exist, in essence, allowing them to fly outside of the craft. They were a very popular item with the children but rarely used by the adults, who were content to listen to music or try and catch up on some much needed sleep.

  Before trying out the goggles Justin took in his immediate environment. His first experience had been on the equivalent of a luxury liner and had therefore kept him from getting to know the ins and outs of his world’s main transportation system. Now he viewed it anew. The “standard” pod, he noticed, seemed very much like a circular conference room with two rows of seats circling the center, which had a galley and a bathroom. The seats resembled the very best of first class that Justin remembered from his days of jet travel. There was enough space for each seat to recline fully. Comfort seemed to be the main concern here.

  “Sorry about the crowding,” said Neela.

  Justin smiled. He wasn’t bothered at all. This standard was as nice as, if not nicer than, the luxury accommodations he’d grown accustomed to in his previous world. The only odd part of the flight happened when Justin wasn’t using the gigglegogs. It occurred when he took them off to ask Neela a question and was confronted by a good-looking young man from across the aisle.

 

‹ Prev